Back to Manhattan

So, after seven years, I made it back to Manhattan. Out of Brooklyn and back into the part of the city that only exists in black and white. We made it actually -- myself and my wife, Dhanushka.

And we moved incredibly close to where I lived when I first came to the city after college. It was the upper east side, just 20 blocks south of SpaHa on 2^nd avenue. There’s a great halal cart outside our apartment. Not sure if the guy bathes in his own cooking oil. I can only hope.

And yes, as hard as it might be to believe, I committed to somebody. Forget about my past commitments to the Mets or to eating handfuls of double-stuffed Oreos every night after dinner. This was a person. This was beautiful Dhanushka.

I married her. I loved her more than anything else in the world. She had a smile that could light up the darkest room. A spirit and love of living that you could see within the first couple minutes of meeting her. Nothing seemed to bother her. I felt better every time she was around.

Although we loved our new home, it wasn’t a move we planned. We were there out of necessity.

Before, we were living in a grand building in up and coming Gowanus, right next to the canal. We were excited about it. The neighborhood was hip, the bars were cool, breweries were aplenty. Friends came to visit. They loved our rooftop, the welcoming lobby and all the new, strange restaurants you read about in Eater but never think you’ll see in person.

Oftentimes, on warm nights, the two of us would stroll, hand-in-hand, down the roads of Carroll Gardens – staring at the townhouses and wondering how much each one might cost. Wondering if, someday, somehow, we might ever live in one of them.

I even remember the first time we came to the neighborhood and decided to move there together. We went to an old, woodsy-looking candle-lit wine bar, hidden away so well in the dark and among the nearby homes that you wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking for it. Fireflies, fireflies in New York City, were floating through the air. It felt like magic. We could stay here forever, I thought to myself. Our future kids would love it (Maya would be her name if it was a girl, although I preferred the Ghetto Superstar spelling Mya). They’d hate us if we didn’t give it a shot. What if we stayed here forever?

But then things suddenly became different. After weeks of massive headaches, my wife, my girl – the one I met one incredibly hazy night at Williamsburg’s Union Pool six years before – was sick. Terminally. She had Glioblastoma. Brain cancer. The worst of the worst. At 27 years old.

At first, we stayed in Gowanus. The surgery knocked out the first tumor. She came out of it well, eating chocolate chip cookies by the busload. She had six weeks of chemotherapy and radiation while somehow still working every day. We woke up every morning to do the half hour drive to Weill Cornell on the upper east side – listening to songs and podcasts and anything else to take our minds off what we were doing. We learned to appreciate the beauty of the Brooklyn Bridge and sunrises coming up and over the East River – lighting up the city for our daily approach.

Dhanush finished up the six weeks like a breeze. We knew how serious it all was, but besides losing some strands of hair on the back of her head, she was fine. We were fine. It’s weird and probably wrong, but I counted on her to keep me strong and she was impenetrable. She refused to be knocked down.

We had a few months of trips and fun. We went to our favorite hotel: Victoria House in Belize. We went on sunset cruises, we drank margaritas, we spent days just sitting in the sun – soaking it all in. 

We went to Bermuda and Martha’s Vineyard. All the while, she was continuing chemo. It made her sick but you wouldn’t have known it.

And then, in June, an MRI showed it had returned to her spine. Everyone cried. It’s never a place you want cancer to go.

We were told we had to move to Boston to undergo the most intense radiation anybody can get: Cerebral-spinal. The entire brain and entire spine for 5 weeks at Mass General. But right before, we decided to get married.

We had planned on doing the wedding in Newport in September, but that was, of course, all up in the air now. It crushed Dhanushka – a person who loved friends and family more than anything -- not to have big ceremony and party, but the day at the Brooklyn courthouse and afterwards turned out to be just as memorable.

Boston was difficult. It feels like it was 10 years ago, when it was just last summer. Her legs, her back, her weight, everything became weak. She lost all of her beautiful black hair. Everything became harder for her. By the final week, she could barely make the five-minute walk to the hospital. She couldn’t get on the radiation table without an Ativan.

Somehow, though, she made it through. Again. She didn’t complain. She didn’t break down. She was incredible. She even went to a wedding with me just a few days after finishing. When any of us would’ve been crying in a corner refusing to move; Dhanushka looked like this. She danced on a night when she could hardly stand.

And then she had a stable scan back in New York at Cornell. That’s when we decided we needed to move. Back to Manhattan. Closer to the hospital.

We had another few months of relative calm. She was on a new drug to try and keep the cancer at bay. Her walking improved with the placement of a shunt and almost daily physical therapy. Her hair began to grow back – little wisps, but something we could keep an eye on and note to ourselves as a small sign of the body healing and improving. We did cocktail-making glasses, we stayed at the W in Miami over New Years, we had a night up in the Catskill mountains, we had plans for a whole lot more.

And then, the disease that just wouldn’t go away came back to the brain and spine in March. This time things began deteriorating quickly. She lost her sight in her left eye and then began slowly losing it in her right. Her legs gradually weakened again and stopped working for her. We went from me walking with her -- holding her under her arms -- to a walker, to finally, a wheelchair.

But she still never lost that light about her. I remember coming back early from Florida in March and she opened her mom’s apartment door with a giant smile. Her left eye was off-center, not working with the other, but she was smiling. She was so happy to see me. I don’t even know if she knew. I’ll never forget that. That bright optimism was always there in these heartbreaking moments. She was always ready for a kiss or cuddle. She never felt defeated. Cancer could take a lot of things from her, but it couldn’t take her spirit. It couldn’t make her sad if she didn’t let it.

She began to sleep a lot more post-March. She had confusion for the small amounts of time she was awake. Bouts of immunotherapy and chemotherapy did nothing, potentially just causing more issues. Finally, in May, the doctors told us there wasn’t anything else they could do. We decided to leave New York to be in a bigger space for most hands-on, in-home care. It was hard leaving the city and our empty apartment behind, mostly because I knew it was probably the last time she’d be there with me.

She continued to have more trouble eating and swallowing, we eventually had her on oxygen 24/7. She was bedbound. Her voice went from strong and clear to a whisper to just mouthing words, and then, eventually, nothing.

Still, she was there waiting for kisses. She still smiled. She nodded when I asked her if she wanted me to jump in her hospital bed with her. She was still there. She was still fighting when everybody else would have given up.

Finally, after a week of unresponsiveness, she passed away. Peacefully with no pain. With everyone who loved her most at her bedside. She’s gone and it’s hard to accept that it’s real.

Life is unfair. It sucks. It’s random bull shit. She did nothing to deserve any of it. And where is she now? Is she OK? When I look at the clouds moving in the sky, I wonder if she’s behind them. When I hear the wind rustling through the trees, I wonder if that’s her telling me she’s all right.

I miss her all the time. Everything reminds me of her. Songs, movies, TV shows, food, photographs, smells, sounds, ice cream, puppies. It feels wrong seeing and doing things when she can’t. The first few days back home with my parents, I’ve almost gone into my bedroom to check my phone to see what she’s texted me. Maybe a kissy-face emoji, maybe a “hi how you?” And then I remember that she’s not here anymore.

So what do I do? Where do I go? Do I move to Miami? Do I go to Carmel by the Sea, the place we always imagined living when we were much older? What about just staying in New York? It was the place we met. A place with so many memories and dates and dinners and late-night parties. She loved it here. She loved walking up and down fifth avenue by herself, eating hit-me chocolate cake at Catch, spending a hot summer day in the Rockaways.

Maybe if I stay, those memories will always be swirling around -- they'll always be a part of me. She’ll always be a part of me. 

Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

https://www.abta.org/

The Ninth Inning

I had found my spot.

It was just down the right-field line, parallel to right fielder Curtis Granderson and about 30 rows up from the grass. I stood up in the aisle against a side wall -- with a perfect view of the field. A perfect view for the top of the ninth inning. A perfect view to watch Matt Harvey close out his complete game and send the Mets back to Kansas City for Game 6 of the World Series.

As he jogged out onto the field and fired in his warm-up pitches, the "Harvey" chants were deafening. An older fan to the right rapped his cane against the seat in front of him, slightly grimacing with each "Har-vey" as though he knew what's coming. Another man leaning over the railing above me screamed at his fellow brethren to get louder, worried that his Mets couldn't hear us ... nervous we weren't doing a good enough job. Two middle-school aged boys in front of me, possibly brothers, danced around to the chorus of cheers in their deGrom and Harvey shirts.

Were these two kids alive during the 2000 World Series, my thoughts wander. Do they know about the great Timo Perez? What about Butch Huskey? Eric Valent?

Harvey finished his warm-up tosses and Lorenzo Cain stepped up to the plate. Optimism is at its highest.
Terry Collins had listened to us maniacal fans! He left him in the game! Harvey is a true competitor. This would be the turning point in the series.

Cain walks.

Optimism wanes, but there's still much confidence among the over-capacity crowd. Harvey chants continue, gaining in seriousness and necessity.

Cain steals second. Eric Hosmer doubles him home. Harvey comes out of the game.

Things begin to get restless.

The father of the two boys in front of me moves up the aisle toward the section's exit, squinting out at the field like he's trying to shield his eyes from some nuclear explosion.

The fan above me is now shrieking at us to join him in a "Let's Go Mets" chant, his voice nearly gone, his heart stronger than ever.

Jeurys Familia enters the game. He's one of the best closers in baseball, yet, you wouldn't know it looking at the grim faces in the Citi Field seats. 

Mike Moustakas grounds out to first base, moving Hosmer along to third. One out.

The Queens' faithful are now all standing, hunched over, cheering, hands crossed above their heads, hands clapping on beat ... off-beat ... hands back above their heads. 

A crushed beer can rolls sheepishly off the ledge next to me and falls behind the deGrom/Harvey boys. They look back then quickly turn their attention to the action.

I've lost sight of the older fan with the cane. Had he left? Was he in the bathroom? The Shake Shack line? There couldn't be a Shake Shack line at this point in the game, right?

I reach for the side of the same ledge, ready to brace myself for whatever's coming next. The hard cement is caked in peanut shells and spilled drinks, but I hardly notice. I need something to hold onto.

Hoping for happiness, preparing for nothing close to it.

And then ...

As soon as the ball sails past d'arnaud's glove, heads spin away from the field as if they're on some metronomic swivel. Aghast and unable to watch any longer, some fans pack up their belongings and head for the exits. Perhaps they'll listen to the legendary Howie Rose call the ebbing moments of the 2015 season on the drive home or maybe they'll journey in silence -- letting the night and dark consume them.

I'd fault them for giving up so quickly, but, well, you know what happened.

I stand there in my spot until the 12th inning, hearing the father call his two boys up to go home and seeing the man above me slam his fist into a table before ending his shift for the year. 

I leave the stadium later on when it's nearly empty, making my way past the home run apple and up toward the 7 train steps. Even with the loss, I'm overcome with a good feeling. The Mets had a great season. They had been to the World Series. I had been to the World Series. I turn around for one last look at the stadium's warm glow -- a reminder of the memorable summer that was:

Same time next year?

I have 3, they have 30: How Phish converted me

There I was -- cheering, swaying, jamming in my seat at Madison Square Garden. I never, ever thought I'd be there, let alone be enjoying myself.

Sure, I'd gone to MSG to see the Knicks play. Shit, I'd even been there to see a hockey game. But to see Phish? What the fuck was I doing here? Had I been drugged? Was I having some LSD-infused nightmare? I'm a custy? Who has wook flu? Is this Star Wars?

That was how I felt three years ago, the night I arrived at my very first Phish show in the heart of New York City. I was a Hip Hop fan. I didn't know Phish from (sorry, Phish fans) Reel Big Fish. I didn't know Phish from one fish, two fish, redfish or bluefish. I was frightened. I was confused.

But I was there. I was there because my good friend had always been a fan and I needed to see (or he needed me to see) what it was all about. And I'm glad I/he did.

--

The atmosphere is unlike any other. You don't have to know the songs. No one's screaming them out or waiting for you to do the same.

The long, twisting guitar riffs and echoing keyboard overwhelm everything. They'll hit a nerve you never knew you had. I certainly didn't know I had it. You'll want to dance. You might make out with the person next to you. You'll smile. They'll smile.



With welcoming music comes welcoming fans, or Phans, or Phisheads, or wooks. There's no fighting. There are no angry mobs. People share seats. People hang out in the fucking aisles for the show's entire entirety.

"Sure, your seat is at the top of the building, but you can sway here next to me in the front row while hitting my bowl filled with my marijuana."

What? Can you imagine that kind of thing happening at any other concert? There would be mass ejections/murder. But here, it was safe. It was normal. It was just how it was, and it was spectacular.

OK, grab that bowl back and pay close/lose all attention. Watch the show. Watch as the lights stream magically around the arena, bringing the audience to life. It's almost as if that ray of brilliance first made them dance, but then you remember you're at a Phish show, and everyone is dancing ... all the time.

It's nearly midnight, but the energy from the music and the people keep you going. You're as young as you ever wanted to be. A beach ball comes into your section and you juggle it on your head a few times before punching it forward. First punch thrown in Phish show history?

Trey, Jon, Mike and Page keep jamming away -- eight, 10, 20, 76, I lost count(?) minutes at a time. Balloons fall from the ceiling, lighters flicker in unison, glowsticks pour out from sections like green rainbows running over some fairytale horizon. You can't help but laugh. Good times, brah.

--

Three years this past December. That's how long we've made going to the MSG Phish run a tradition. I roared the Reba Roar, I air-guitared my way through last NYE eve eve's classic second set, and I've fucking swayed. I look forward to the show every winter.

And how about Phish. The four mates celebrated their 30th year together in 2013. They've adopted hoards of fans with their easygoing, jam-band-man, incredibly quirky sound. They don't rant. They don't scream. They don't blow things up on stage.

They perform. They play music. They have a good time doing what they love.

And I've had a good time listening.

Photos via Phish.com and Phishthoughts.com

Shut up and Lift: Papa Frenchie is Here to Stay

He shuffled in his chair and squinted out his desk-side window -- perhaps wondering how a neighborhood could have changed so much over the past 37 years, perhaps simply watching the trucks roar by on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“You know, I could’ve been a wrestler,” Frenchie said with a smile. “But I was too short. Too light.”

Before the luxury, high-rise buildings shot up along the East River, before Christopher Wallace became Notorious BIG, before the MetroCard -- there was Frenchie’s Gym.

Hailing from Puerto Rico, Frenchie (or Papa Frenchie, if you’d like) came to the Big Apple in 1966. He started off as a Manhattan factory worker before quickly entering the club wrestling scene via Williamsburg’s Mr. Puerto Rico Gym. But after attending a local match with early-WWF superstars Johnny Rodz and Jose Estrada, Frenchie decided refereeing was the better fit.

“Let me tell you, I was 5’3” and 140 pounds!” he recalled. “These guys were giants.

And referee he did. Frenchie began by officiating local events before eventually doing a 1979 match in front of 30,000 people ... at Madison Square Garden:

“Nervous? Never. I was excited!” the 73-year-old said, smacking his hand on his desk. “The boss (Vince McMahon) had to tell me to calm down in between rounds.”

He worked on-and-off at MSG for 10 years. He was in the ring for the first Wrestlemania. He hung out with Hulk Hogan and Mr. T. He even starred in the short-lived FX show “Lights Out.”

But Frenchie’s greatest contribution probably came in 1976 – the year he turned an old dentist’s office into a workout haven. A Williamsburg mainstay that’s survived crack epidemics, recessions and varying degrees of gentrification.

Frenchie’s Gym stands two floors above a discount clothing store, parallel to the elevated M Train station on Broadway and Marcy. In many ways, the gym is refreshingly old-fashioned -- hardwood floors, rows of free weights, get-to-the-point bodybuilding machines and the owner, yes, the owner there to greet you at the door.

In other ways, change has crept its way into the neighborhood landmark. A “Like Us on Facebook” sticker sits awkwardly next to a poster of an ‘80s bodybuilder, the glowing light of a drink machine shines over a vintage desk full of old wrestling tales and an array of sports jerseys hang from a decades-old ceiling -- ready to be sold.

And then there’s the surrounding neighborhood.

A McDonalds, Checkers and Bank of America have all since opened right around the corner. High-rise apartments, internet cafes, grass-fed beef restaurants, smoothie stores and barcades have sprouted up in droves across the highway in South Williamsburg. Ridership on the L has increased almost 20 million in the past 20 years. Young professionals have replaced Dominican, Italian-American and Puerto Rican immigrants.

“Who am I to judge people?” Frenchie shrugged, rubbing his head. “But yeah, people who have been here a long time have been knocked out. Prices are too high to compete.”

Brooklyn’s average rent was calculated at $3,305 (an 8.2% increase from 2012) this past summer, not far off from Manhattan’s $3,822 median.

But although he feels the pressure of rising prices and radical changes, Frenchie keeps his fees low ($30 per month), maintains fulfilling relationships with customers and will stay in business as long as he can.

“I’m here 15 hours a day,” he said, stroking his long grey beard as an M Train rattled by the far windows. “As long as I can walk up that staircase to my desk -- I’ll be here, Papi. You can count on it.”

My relationship with Lou Reed

It's funny how I was first introduced to Lou Reed. It was indirect. It was unintentional. It was via a group of guys from Queens, almost 30 years his junior:

After hearing the song a few times, I decided to do some research on the lyrics. Who the hell was "Mr. Dinkins?" And why did A Tribe Called Quest want him to be their "mayor?"

Well, I never did find out who Mr. Dinkins was, but I did discover "Walk on the Wild Side"

The original took the place of the sample. "Dinkins" was subbed out for "Dean." I was walking on the wild side (Fordham Road is pretty wild) during my last year of college.

And then, while teaching English in Korea post-graduation, the song became a noreabang (karaoke) favorite performed by myself and some other guy who tried to blog blogged while overseas. It mostly involved throwing microphones back-and-forth, Jamiroquaing furniture around the room and singing "doo do-do do-do do-do doo do-do ... " over and over again.

But Reed was always there in the background. Talking about Holly from FLA, or Sugar Plum Fairies hittin' the streets. And whenever I hear it now, I think of that room. I think of the drinks, the friends from around the world, the great times we had ...

Eventually, I heard more Reed. And it was again indirectly (Don't ask me why I didn't search out more of his material. I'm a jerk). I saw Adventureland the very same year, a movie that was chock full of Reed references and songs. "Satellite of Love," "Here She Comes" and "Pale Blue Eyes" all made appearances:

It was a coming-of-age film about spending the summer working at an amusement park -- something I did in my high-school days. Young love, stupid mistakes and an overpowering innocence. Reed's music helped ripen that nostalgia and bring about some fond memories.

From there, and on my journey back to living in New York City, I've branched out to his live recordings in London, his Oh! Sweet Nothings and sweet,

Sweet Jane:

Songs that balance the ups, downs, confusion and excitement of living in NYC. A wild night out on the town, or the disappointment of a lost opportunity. An urban soundtrack for anybody's early-20s.

I may not be the biggest Lou Reed fan, but he's definitely played an interesting part in my young adulthood -- meeting me in NYC, traveling on my laptop to South Korea and waiting for me upon my return.
He will definitely be with me as I make my move to Brooklyn (his hometown) later this week. And although our relationship may be strange and a bit wild -- something tells me Mr. Reed wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

A Farewell Note to Spanish Harlem

He adored Spanish Harlem, he idolized it all out of proportion ...

No, wait. That’s not right. Nobody adores Spanish Harlem. Nobody idolizes it. And if they did, they definitely didn't idolize it out of proportion.

After three years, I’m saying goodbye to East Harlem -- specifically 101st Street and Third Avenue, Apt. B-7D (b as in boy, d as in dog for food-delivery purposes). It’s a neighborhood that looked to be on the up-and-up (sort of) when I first moved, but now, as I depart, seems to be falling back by the wayside. Within the past year, an entire block of restaurants/cafes have closed. A pizza shop went out of business. Families are running for the hills. Rats have foreclosed on garbage cans. A SUBWAY CLOSED. DURING SUBTEMBER.

And even though things have taken a turn for the worse, this place, a few blocks north of the nearest Halal food cart, has been my home for my first few post-college years. It’s SpaHa. It’s taught me wrong from right. It’s solidified my belief that a bodega sandwich is the only sandwich. It smells like molding cheese six months out of the year. For all these things, I owe it a farewell -- fond or not.

Fine Fare Grocery

You were my first grocery store, and yes, your fines were indeed fare. But your food ... questionable. Sausages that last for two days. Chunky milk. Babies eating Lucky Charms in the aisles. However, I did enjoy your collection of Oreos. From double-stuffed to Halloween's cream-colored orange, you always knew the way to my heart.

Gunshots

We heard you more than a few times over the past three years. Sometimes you were all by yourself. Sometimes you came in bunches. Sometimes you were accompanied by screams. Sometimes there was laughter. Either way, we knew you were out there. I’ll miss you, gunshots. Not too much, though.

Emmerson Deli (directly below my building)

I love you. Your Cold Italian sandwiches, your sunflower seeds at 2 am, your ever-changing prices, your Caesar salads, that I got sick from, but continued to order because I thought they were healthy.
A 24/7 deli is crucial. My next apartment needs to have one. If not, I’ll have to learn how to make a ham sandwich.

The Laundry Lady

Because you wear a surgical mask, I've never actually seen the bottom half of your face. But that's OK. I know it's there.
You laugh at my jokes, you work hard, you once sewed up a tear in my corduroys (goddammit I love corduroys) free of charge. You're the best.

Do you deliver to/from Brooklyn?

96th Street Halal Cart

It may be true that one of my fellow SpaHa’ers saw you bathing in your own cooking oil. It may also be true that the lamb over rice is not actually lamb over rice. But you know what, I don’t really care. Your late-night service, your white sauce (what is that shit?), your conversation on a Friday night when there’s nobody left to talk to.
You’re the best food cart in all the land. You deserve a spot in Restaurant Week. You’re to die for. Really though, this guy may have died halfway through his meal:

The Reservoir Run

Yeah, I run. Seriously, I do. You wanna race? I did a 5K this past spring at the Bronx Zoo. Did it for the elephants. I love elephants. Great memories.
Anyways, sometimes I run outside. When I do, I usually run around the Central Park Reservoir off 96th street. The trees, the fresh air and the water provide a kind of oasis away from the city. It's especially nice at night:

And yes, I know that's not exactly Spanish Harlem. But I often end my run up towards 110th street:

Yeah, by the time I get there it's day again.

My Rooftop

It’s where I’m typing this love letter to you, Spanish Harlem. I can see the Triborough Bridge straight out in front of me. Manhattan towers over my right shoulder, while the Bronx fades off to my left. I can see the lights of Yankee Stadium on August nights, fireworks from three different boroughs in July and strobe lights from Central Park dancing in the sky during summer concert tours.

But the one thing I’ll really miss seeing is the traffic moving up Third Ave. Leaning over the ledge and just watching it.  Knowing that I’m in a city that’s always moving and never sleeping. Cars and buses maneuvering their way in and out of different lanes, near-accidents occurring at every cross street, stoplights setting the rhythm to the city's song.

Me seeing it all happen from a safe distance.

I'll definitely miss that.

I'll miss all of this -- the good, the bad, the wonky. That's what Spanish Harlem is, and that's what it always will be. 

But I'll be back living on this side of the city some day. And hopefully it's in that part of town that only exists in black and white.

Walking through Spanish Harlem in the summer

A blurry picture of Mike Francesa standing can only be compared to seeing the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot

I couldn't believe my eyes.  I'd never seen him not sitting behind his desk, waving off lawst listenas, sleeping or throwing back Diet Cokes. I'd never seen him stand up.

Was it really Da Pope at the All-Star Game? The King of Nuah Yawk? THE Mike Francesa?

If it was, it was a rare sighting indeed.

Keep sippin' that gin & juice and let me tell you why 1994 was pop culture gold, yo

Real, grainy Hip Hop flowing off cassette tapes, Andy Dufresne holed up in a Shawshank cell, Run, Forrest, Run? Seinfeld, The Simpsons, Friends, ER ... Al Borlin?

I don't know what my fascination is with 1994. I was 7, but I wish I was 17. It just seems like everything was imperfectly perfect. Even the fashion. The stretched-out tee/baggy shorts, the backwards snap-backs (made popular by David Robinson), big headphones, small studs. I would still wear all of that today -- if today was 1994 and I had style.

And it seemed even more real and edgy in NYC.  The 2008 movie "The Wackness," set in '94, reaches back and captures the time period pretty well. Even the word "wackness" screams early-90s.
The film's soundtrack includes mostly R&B/Rap from that era -- Biggie, Faith Evans, A Tribe Called Quest, R. Kelly, etc. And along with the nostalgic shots of the city, the rooftop parties and the "fresh-to-death" lingo, you can almost feel the humidity of those warm city nights and live in the innocence of the main character, Luke Shapiro, as he sips forties and puffs Parliaments in Central Park. Fire Island looks like Bermuda.

That's the Hollywood version of '94 and it's pretty spot-on. But anyway, enough of the Wackness. Let's talk a little about the dopeness of this memorable year.

First off, Hip Hop was Hip Hop. No Lil' Wayne. No auto-tune. No Ke$ha. Off-the-street, socially-conscious Hip Hop. Ready to Die, Illmatic, Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik(keep trying to pronounce that), Resurrection, Regulate ... G Funk Era. Top singles ranged from Snoop's "Gin and Juice," Biggie's "Juicy," Wu Tang's "C.R.E.A.M.", and R. Kelly's "Bump N' Grind" to Ace of Base's "I Saw the Sign." And oh yeah, there was this. 1994 probably consummated mad babies:


And the movies. Oh man, the movies. First off, we have The Lion King -- which is still the top-grossing traditionally-animated film of all-time. I still hope to be a father figure like Mufasa someday. Then there was Forrest Gump, which won Best Picture and nabbed Tom Hanks his second consecutive Best Actor award. Pulp Fiction, Speed, Dumb and Dumber and True Lies also came out in '94. Hoop Dreams, one of the greatest documentaries ever, balled out that January. And a Stephen King short story you can almost definitely watch on AMC right this minute, came out later that Fall. "I have no idea, to this day, what those two Italian ladies were singing about ..." but it went a little something like this:



TV, like it is today, was also pretty tremendous. Some of the greatest shows were in their prime or more or less entering it. Everybody was watching E.R. Seinfeld was huge. Girlfriends watched Friends with girlfriends while talking about boyfriends of other girlfriends' girlfriends. The Simpsons was taking off AKA moving away from Bart and pushing Homer as the funnier, more marketable character. Saved By the Bell reruns, Boys Meets World, SNICK ... the premiere of All That?!?! What an intro:


That's it. Honestly, I really have no idea why I wrote this post. Why am I still writing this blog? Does anybody read it? This is pretty pointless. But yeah, I do love "The Wackness" and you should go see it.

That flagpole in the middle of the street

What was a flagpole doing in the middle of Main Street? Whose idea was this? You're telling me it didn't make sense to put it in front of the Meeting Hall or next to the Newtown Bee? How tall is this thing? Can people see it from space? And will I, while driving to Greg Smith's house or the wine vineyards for a vintage baseball game, ever crash into it? 
That's what I used to think about the Newtown flagpole. It was strange. Out of place. But it had been there since 1876. It had survived major thunderstorms, fires and car accidents. So in a way, it was stubborn.

Then I saw it again on Friday afternoon in the above picture. The day that kindergartners were killed -- young children taking their fundamental first steps in life.

And I teared up. The flag that I'd passed by so many times as a kid was being lowered to half-mast. It was on the national news. Not because somebody got their tongue stuck in the morning freeze or some astronaut spotted it from space -- it was because of a horrific tragedy.

The 100-foot structure looked dramatic and striking against the dreary sky. But you know what, the flagpole still left me with stubborn feelings.

It was the stubbornness of our elected officials for not thoroughly examining our gun control laws. The stubbornness of Republicans. The stubbornness of Democrats. The stubbornness of some bill in some holy document created hundreds of years ago. It's not 1780 anymore. We're not dairy farmers with pitchforks and pistols.  It's 2012 and suburban teenagers are wielding assault rifles.

Let's get this done, America. Let's discuss regulation. Korea, a place I lived a year, does not allow guns to any civilians. Just hunting rifles. Murders last year in SK: 1,251; US: 12,996. Korea's neighbor Japan (with similar gun control laws, and closer pop. numbers) had just 442. Some telling facts. Who needs 47 guns? Who needs two? One? Tell me why?

And it's also the stubbornness that we have in not dealing with our mental health system. Many families are too stubborn or scared to admit their child or father or brother has serious mental issues. They can't fathom the embarrassment or implications, so they ignore and deal with it on their own (sometimes to a fault). But let's not forget the stubbornness and ignorance of the larger societal system within our country. People who are bi-polar or suffering from other severe disorders are not given the care or proper support in our society. They're more routinely thrown in prison than admitted into a hospital. It's easier. Just clump these mentally-challenged individuals into an institution with murderers and degenerates, because they're cut from the same cloth, right? A great article that's been circling the web on this very subject is here.

And finally, the other stubbornness I felt when I saw that very same flag I'd seen so many times throughout my life, was the stubbornness of Newtown, the stubbornness of Connecticut and the stubbornness of our country. The U.S. has been through some incredible moments in recent past, from equal rights movements to 9/11 to natural disasters. But we've endured and taken appropriate courses of action. We've passed equal rights laws for women and worked toward eliminating racial discrimination. We've increased security measures and shut down numerous terrorist threats. We've held onto that American stubbornness that we are a great nation and we need to do the right thing. And this recent tragedy deserves that same attitude.

Let's discuss. Let's take action. We need to do it for ourselves, for our pride and for our future, but most importantly, we need to do it for Sandy Hook Elementary School, the families involved and for that town with the funny little flagpole in the middle of the street.

A fellow Nutmegger,

- Matt Monagan

The Prince

Sans steroids (allegedly) and hamburgers (allegedly), Prince Fielder hit a ball 611 feet during batting practice with the Tigers today. That's far. Far for me; a kid that could barely reach the outfield grass at Fulton Park. That infield was huge! Endless amounts of dirt.

For Prince, probably not that far. The guy hit a home run out of Tiger Stadium at the age of 13. I dyed my hair orange at age 13 using Sun-In. I blame Marshall Mathers and middle-school peer pressures. Fielder hit 50 home runs in the big leagues at the age of 23. First ever to reach 50 at such a young age. I drank 15 beers and taped them together to form a "Wizard's Staff" when I was 23. Probably not the youngest ever to finish 15 cold ones, but a great feat nonetheless.

My point is, Prince is a true ballplayer and great power hitter. He also seems like a good guy and has done a whole lot of damage in a short time. And I wish the Mets had him. Much love for the Prince. Keep swinging hard.

El Beisbol

The great migration south begins. Baselines are re-rolled. Bleachers are shined. Bags of seeds and tins of Skoal are lined up in Florida locker rooms and Arizona dugouts. Bat bags are tossed into on-deck circles along with fresh packs of pine tar. Infields are crisper than ever and bad hops are inexcusable. I can almost smell the leather. I can hear the warm sounds of balls hitting mitts.

ESPN's Bottom Line is alive with updates:

Manny Ramirez signs minor league contract with the Oakland A's. Quality pick-up Billy Beane.

Mariano Rivera hints at retirement. Why?

Dmitri Young loses 50 pounds and attempts comeback. Rooting for you, D'Meat Hook! Please hit your weight.

Tim Wakefield retires. A great knuckleballer and two-time WS champion with 200 wins. He can now drink all the beer and eat all the wings he wants.

Terry Collins touts the Mets will surprise a lot of people and be better than expected.

A new season is here. A new start. Anybody can win. Hope Springs eternal.

Hooray Baseball.

Gone Phishin'

Is Phish my favorite band? No. Do I know the names of any of their band members? No. Do I care? No. Do I even like fish? No. Ever since my Mom told me the story of finding an earthworm in a tuna can while making a sandwich for my Dad, I've tried to avoid the species all together. I also am deathly afraid of sharks. I've actually had nightmares about sharks growing legs and walking among us; ravaging homes and eating newborns in just one bite. Anyway...

The Don was in town around New Year's Eve this year. Why did the Don decided to grace us with his presence? No doubt he wanted to see his old friends from college, tour the Big Apple and lounge in our cozy Spanish Harlem bachelor pad. But Da Don also had a bigger agenda in mind. His favorite band Phish was in town and playing Madison Square Garden three nights in a row. The Don was on a mission and taking us along for the ride. Lynch and I would become Phishheads for one night.

The area surrounding Madison Square Garden was mobbed. I'd never seen so many people loitering outside the NYC sports/concert mecca. I'd also never seen so many without shoes on. Quite frankly, I was frightened. Sharks with legs dream frightened. It was as if Walking Dead had taken over the streets outside MSG. Walkers everywhere. Thought about hiding under a car. Where's RICK!

Entering the arena was like entering another dimension. Flashing lights, guitarists jumping on trampolines, swaying bodies all moving in a scattered, kind of beautiful unison and lots and lots of smoke. I'd never seen so much smoke in an enclosed space. It was probably similar to living with Patty and Selma from The Simpsons. I wanted to call the FDNY but couldn't see my phone.

One big-time Phishhead (I could tell because she had no shoes) noticed me swaying in the aisle. Guess I was swaying pretty well. This is how the conversation went:

Woman: Great show, huh? One of the best they've ever had.

Me: Yeah. Oh, definitely one of the best.

Woman: I'm from Nantucket. Where are you from?

Me: Nantucket, wow! Didn't know people lived there year-round. I live in New York.

Woman: Yeah, I'm a chef. Do you like food?

Me: Yeah, almost as much as I like Phish! What's your favorite dish to make?

Woman: something, something, something with eggs and bacon.

Me: Wow, that sounds delicious.

Woman: I know, so how many shows is this for you? This is my 112th!

Me: Um. Actually..This is my first one.

Conversation over.

She was actually pretty nice about ending the conversation and wanted to stop talking so I could "enjoy to the maximum." I thanked her and continued swaying.

Overall, the Phish concert was an awesome experience. Sure, they may have 25 minute songs, but they're songs that hit a nerve you never thought you had. A stress-free nerve that allows you to be friendly to people you've never seen before, say things you've never said before and sway. Just sway and feel free. A welcome atmosphere after a stressful week in the office. There's nothing quite like it. So a big thanks to Trey, Jon, Mike and Page. And also to Don for dragging us along. Below is a video I filmed on my way back into the concert from the bathroom. No bathroom shots unfortunately.

Wired

Re-watching The Wire with my two roommates this week. One of the best shows I've ever seen. Better than American Horror Story. Even better than Fraggle Rock. Remember that intro?

Anyway, I've started using phrases like "the produc" to describe Bermuda to journalists at work. "You wanna' know more about the produc? See even when the economy doing bad, we still doing pretty good. Everyone still needs a vacation. Caribbean islands man...that shit is forever."

I often find myself whistling while walking around the office, peering into offices and giving people strange glares when I need a monthly report done or a newspaper scanned. Monooo comin'.

I even told my roommate that a girl at the bar looked "right." "She was right, man." Unfortunately, she thought I was wrong.

Not sure what it is that makes me bring out these wire-esque lines. Could be the fact that I'm presently watching The Wire (definitely the case). Or maybe it's because I'm from the dirty Waterbury, where the water's brownin' and the economy drownin'. Maybe it's living in Spa-Ha with the wonky-eyed bodega owners and rats feasting on cats? Sheeeeeettt man. Guess I'm just a gangsta, I suppose...

Rock the Casbah

I just wanted to post this song again. Incredible, funk-filled beat. It's been in my head all day. I actually wrote "Rock the Casbah" as a press release title three different times today.

The song is so good Big Will made time to sample it on Willenium. Which version is better? I can't be the judge of that.

GivingThanks

What am I thankful for this year? Global Warming? Tim Tebow? Having a job? Yes. Definitely having a job. A very important component to living in New York City and being able to frequent the bars, neighborhoods and dining establishments located throughout this great metropolis:

Turtle Bay on 42nd and 2nd continues to be one of the greatest drinking dens this side of the Equator. The sweet smells of Bukoff Vodka and week-old vomit offer a strange feeling of comfortability seen nowhere else in the city. You can also count on Pitbull, Ne-Yo, Maya being played at least 26 times throughout the night. Take a picture of that with a Kodak.

Iggys, a karaoke bar on the UES, is the house where angels sing every Friday and Saturday night. 80-year old women dance to Britney Spears and young men sing Hall and Oates until ears bleed.

Spanish Harlem remains one of the great neighborhoods in the big apple. Ample bodegas and halal street food are probably the two predominant reasons. Halal, how are you?

But everyone can read more about NYC and all its treasures at www.CityPath.com! One of the greatest web sites for finding what's really good in your hood. Check it out. Phenomenal writers.

Anyway, here are few other things I'm thankful for this year.

RageFacing

Clever Girl? If you haven't raged, you haven't lived. RageFace is an i-phone app that uses outlandish and almost demon-like faces to symbolize emotions. Lonely - pictures an overweight oaf watching a static TV in the dark. Sorry - depicts a toothless woman begging for forgiveness. Many of the expressions are downright creepy, making them hilarious to text to senile grandparents, unbeknownst girlfriends and 3 am love interests. It's one of the best apps to ever hit the I-phone. Better than Facebook. Better than the I-phone itself. Honestly, I wish I just had a rage face machine instead of a phone. I rarely use words in texts anymore. AWWWWW YEAHHH!!

Old Mix CDs

Have you ever found an old burned CD from high school/college? Maybe one you made during prom season or for a big party or sporting event? I have a bunch that I've made over the years with names like "Springtime 09," "Will Smith & Friends" and "Lonely Mix." Not sure when I made Lonely Mix? Maybe after the Mets collapsed in 07'? I was pretty lonely then. It does have some gems such as "Lonely" by Akon, "Tired of Being Alone" by Al Green and half the Donnie Darko soundtrack. Could serve as a quality powerhour playlist.

Anyway, I found a blank CD labeled "Ultimate Mix" in my sister's car this past weekend and it was in fact one of the greatest mixes I've ever heard. Will Smith, Boys are Back in Town, Rolling Stones, Madonna. Legendary. It had me crying, laughing and yelling at different points throughout. I even started sending sporadic RageFaces to express my emotions. I was zonin' all over Connecticut.

Sweatpants at the Bar

Although I didn't actually see someone sporting them during break, I heard from a trusted source a woman was in fact wearing a pair. Word has it, she was dressed in an entire grey sweatsuit at a Thomaston, CT karaoke bar while singing "Rock the Casbah."

Sweatpants in a bar takes guts and a certain self-confidence/self-deprecation that is unique to find. It's a look that is comfortable for you but uncomfortable for others to look at. In college, I loved wearing sweatpants to the bar. No belt, no wrinkles, no care. Glad it's a trend that's still surviving. I may sport them out this weekend. Hope Turtle Bay allows for it.

BIG PAPA

Larger than life. No regrets. No complaints. My grandfather passed away early last week and with it will leave a large gap in family reunions, holiday gatherings and my heart. 99 Restaurant may go out of business. Bleacher basketball referees will lose one of their more devout members. The makers of honey mustard pretzels should see a huge drop in sales. Golden Retrievers will see an increase in average life expectancy.

Losing my grandfather has been different than any other death in my family. He was a guy you loved to see and who loved seeing you even more. His stories were legendary and carelessly exaggerated. Almost Big Fish-like:

His grandchildren came before anything. He was kind to all walks of life and could pick up a conversation/develop lasting relationships with anybody--whether it was the waitress at Century Buffet, my sister’s middle-school boyfriend or my high-school Spanish teacher.

He thought of others before himself and never, ever complained. That’s probably the most important thing I think I took from him and I try to reflect each and everyday. No matter how difficult the situation, there are people who are worse off. Don’t complain. Just push on through (maybe with the help of few martinis)

When I think of Papa or say his name to my Mom or Dad, it’s hard to believe he’s not around anymore. Then I suddenly realize he’s gone and choke up at the thought. I’ll miss the big man and his stories. I’ll miss the smell of cigars coming from his Buick as a kid. I’ll miss him backing out of our driveway and clipping our hedges with his back bumper. I’ll miss going to Bradley Street and hearing his bellowing “Hello!” when I walk through the door. Although I know that wherever he is now he’s making new friends and not complaining. I know he’s fine and happy because he always has been.

http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6769890/on-whiskey-grease

Another Night in Spa-Ha

Lynch and I were up on the roof enjoying an ice, cold bohemian-style beer; courtesy of the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison.

Shoot, sorry! Got carried away. I mean we were drinking a warm Coors Light after our first softball win. We had 10 run ruled a team and walked off Randall's Island with our heads held high. A feat that is very rare when entering or exiting the former NYC landfill. Home to about 30 softball fields, abandoned factories and a mental hospital, there's not much to be happy about on the island. With the infrequent bus schedules, frequent crackheads and isolation from Manhattan, you sometimes feel as if you'll never get off Randall's ever again.

I've had a similar below conversation with Lynch while sitting in the dugout during a tough loss.

But, we made it off the island and everyone was excited. Lynch and I were reviewing our base hits and staring into the foreboding Spa-Ha night.

Then we heard it.

Boom, Boom, Boom!

We figured it was just a car backfiring and continued analyzing our victory. Then we heard screams. People scattered back and forth across the street about a block north of our apartment. Shots fired in Spanish Harlem!

About 10 cop cars rolled up with detectives and yellow caution tape. The deli owner below us (who honestly probably was the one who committed the murder) was being questioned at the scene of the crime.

We're not sure why there was a shooting or what the ultimate verdict was but c'mon Spanish Harlem. Stop the shooting. Stop the looting.

Bleeding Dodger Blue

And I thought I was a baseball fanatic.

I was out on my lunch break today, passing by The Palace Hotel (across the street from the true palace of New York City: Lou Hammond & Associates).

Anyway, outside The fake Palace, a small crowd had gathered behind a set of ropes. With about 15 minutes left in my lunch break, I decided to investigate the situation.

I walked over and asked what all the fuss was about.

I didn't actually say "What's all the fuss about?" That would've been just strange. I did it in a much more casual and cool demeanor. As if I didn't really care. As if it couldn't be that important.

"Hey, what's the deal over here?"

Then I noticed the nerds. Five or six teenagers, a couple mid-20 year olds and one 30 year old wearing an LA Dodger yamaka. They all were sporting some type of Dodger gear and holding booklets with hundreds of baseball cards. They clutched pens in their hands, waiting with bated breath for Matt Kemp, James Loney, Mike McDougal or even the Spanish language broadcaster.

They were fanatics from the f all the way to the s. I'd never seen such joy and excitement from a group of young men. Not since the Paris Hilton sex tape or KFC's introduction of the Double Down Sandwich. They giggled and snickered back and forth at my question.

"The Dodgers are staying at this hotel for the weekend. Duh! They're coming out right now to board the bus to Citi Field!"

I felt like an idiot. How could I not know this!!??

"Oh yeah," I responded. "That's right." F-ing nerds, I thought to myself.

And then I got behind them in line.

Not really to get an autograph (although I wished I'd brought a pen with me. Thought about just giving one of the dorks an atomic wedgie until he coughed his writing utensil up).

The thing was, I was really interested in scoping out the situation and seeing these fanatics in action. I was also hoping to catch a glimpse of Hong Chih-Kuo.

Well, the 10 minutes I spent out by The Palace really made my Friday. Every time someone walked out the front doors, the nerds would scramble through their cards, trying to put a face to the image. A few times they ran up to regular guests just checking out of the hotel or taking an afternoon stroll down 51st Street. And once one nerd chased after somebody, all the rest would follow suit. Bombarding normal pedestrians with Lance Cormier cards and stabbing arms with pens.

It also seemed like these nerds knew each other on a first name basis. Some were 40 years old, others seemed around 20 and still others were definitely teens. But they seemed like they'd known each other for years and traveled in packs to these gigs.

"Hey Jimmy, you got that Chad Billingsly rookie card?"

"No. Traded it to Tom. Got a Kershaw in exchange. Steal!!"

"Nice dice!" (high fives all around)

The guy standing next to me described it well. He also carried a book of cards but stood back from the rest of the nerds. A vet in the stalking other grown men game. He could get a better view from the back of the line and snipe his prey from afar.

"They just follow each other around...like ducks. Like little bugs. What're those things called? They jump off those cliffs? Dem flemmies?"

He was exactly right. But I think he was referring to the Lemmings.

Honestly, there were a couple moments when I thought about going in the back door of the hotel, throwing on a pair of shades and walking out the front door to sign a few autographs. These guys were literally chasing everyone down. Think I deserved a few autographs after my busy morning. I'd made a couple clutch magazine scans and polished off two monthly reports.

Aside from the jokes and dorky nature these guys embodied, it was refreshing to see people who still have an undying passion for a game that has been through tough times in the past 10 years. It's love for a team and group of guys that really don't care much about you. An unrequited admiration that comes back strong every summer no matter what happened the season past. I mean, look at me. I'm still as much a Mets fan as I was back in 1999 or 2002 or 2004 or 2006 or 2007 or 2008. Maybe even more so. Although ticket prices are high than ever, players are paid ridiculous salaries and Shea Stadium has been demolished, it is a game that has survived and will hopefully be around forever.

"Baseball reminds us of all that once was good and could be again."

Tiger Woods Y'all

Heading to Bermuda tomorrow for a work/golf trip. Presently watching Happy Gilmore to prepare. Hopefully I can keep the ball dry. Hopefully I can put the ball in its home before my 10th stroke. Hopefully I don't slice a drive into someone's face or chip a divot into a spectator's Rum Swizzle.

Hopefully I don't look like THIS GUY! Just plain turrible...